Build You a Kingdom
by Vasheren
Summary: A heatwave sweeps over London, and as John is bombarded both by the sweltering heat and by his flatmate's behaviours, he is forced to reconsider some things about himself and Sherlock Holmes.


_Hey guys, this is my first Sherlock fic, and it's pretty freaking fluffy. And by fluffy I mean there's a sad excuse of a plot and a lot of ogling._

_For those of you waiting for me to update Desperation, my Klaine fic...I'm almost done Chapter 8, which means I will be posting Chapters 7 and 8 up at the same time, hopefully soon! And if you're sitting there thinking, if she can pump out a 5,000 word smut fic for another fandom, WHY CAN'T SHE UPLOAD A 3,000 WORD CHAPTER OF DESPERATION? And to be honest: I'D LOVE TO KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION MYSELF._

_*sigh* Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fic. I have to say I completely admire those who can get John's and Sherlock's characters down perfectly in fics, because they are tough. Not that this situation would ever arise in the show(I wish...), but..._

_Okay, if you're not totally deterred from reading this fic by this point, I hope you like it, and let me know what you think! Reviews are very much appreciated!_

* * *

><p>It was bloody hot.<p>

John grabbed a folder from the living room table and fanned himself with it, feeling absolutely ridiculous as there were four electric fans already whirring in the room. The sweat beading from his brow cooled only slightly, not aiding him in at all, and he tossed the useless folder across the room in defeat. Sighing, he slid down even farther in his armchair, the sweat from the back of his neck leaving a damp trail on the material.

"Bored." Sherlock croaked from across the room, where he was sprawled across the couch, his dark head bend back over the armrest, staring at the wall. A few black curls stuck to his glistening forehead, and his normally pale cheeks flushed with the heat.

"You're not bored, you're hot. There's a difference." John responded dryly, clearing his throat as the words came out hoarser than he had intended. He needed a glass of water. Another glass of water, damn it all, he'd already had at least eight glasses in the last hour. The water just kept pouring out of him as sweat.

"Either way, uncomfortable." Sherlock took a deep, dry breath. "Turn the heat down."

John gritted his teeth. "Sherlock, I told you, it's not a problem with the _heating_; we're experiencing a heat wave. The weather. You'd know this if—"

"I paid more attention to the workings of the solar system, our planet, and the Sun, yes John, the thought has occurred to me." Sherlock hissed in response, the temperature making him snippier than usual.

"Yes, that, or you could just check the weather once in a while on your phone." John snapped back, and closed his eyes wearily. They shouldn't be fighting, especially over nothing. It was just so _hot_. And there wasn't much they could do about it. John would suggest that they go to the public pool to escape the heat, but Sherlock had turned his suggestion down, claiming that the urine to actual chlorinated water ratio was absolutely appalling in public pools, and that was likely to be crawling with people today anyway. John could only reluctantly admit he was right—but then again, when was Sherlock ever wrong?

After a few minutes, the dark haired man let out a frustrated sigh, working a long-fingered hand roughly through his damp curls. "This is almost worse. Almost worse than boredom."

"Personally I think a case would be dreadful in this weather." A dead body in this heat? Crawling with flies, the heat drying up any spilled blood in minutes, the smell…John shuddered.

Sherlock stared up a the ceiling wistfully. "At least then I might be distracted. Distracted from this abysmal heat. Thinking, solving, piecing together, instead of just melting here with nothing to do." He flapped a hand at the ceiling. "There is a water stain there, on that panel. Likely a broken pipe, fixed approximately three years ago, judging by the fade of the stain and the layers of the water within the stain from various dripping points across the flat's history." He let out a sharp breath. "Useless deduction."

John opened his eyes and stared at his friend, watching Sherlock simply…exist. John sometimes wondered what it must be like, to be so brilliant, so clever, that nothing can escape his vision. To never be able to shut it off, to notice every detail, no matter how useless. It must be absolutely frustrating to be noticing things that have no merit, no practical use. John assumed that was why Sherlock loved cases; he was able to absorb details that had a use, that worked towards a nearly impossible solution, one that only he could solve. _That, _John thought as Sherlock licked his lips, moistening them, _and it boosts his already ridiculous ego._

"Fancy some water?" John asked, pushing himself into a sitting position, then to his feet. His t-shirt clung to his back uncomfortably, and he tugged it away from his skin, grimacing as the fabric slid off of his flesh.

Sherlock watched him from across the room, pursed his lips, and then got to his feet as in a slow unfolding of limbs. His white button-up shirt was pasted to his chest with sweat, and John could clearly see the two pink circles of his nipples through the wet fabric. John looked up at Sherlock's face quickly, feeling awkward, and noticed the blue-eyed man rolling his tongue around in his cheek, thinking. His eyes were looking into John's, but as John knew from experience the man wasn't really seeing him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, breaking out of his trance, and nodded. "Yes, water."

John walked into the kitchen, his bare feel slapping against the floor. "What were you just thinking about?"

"Ah, nothing you need to concern yourself with." Sherlock said dismissively, walking into the kitchen after John. He reached into the cupboard for two glasses and handed them to his shorter friend.

"Thanks…" John said, looking at Sherlock suspiciously. He went to the freezer and grabbed a few ice cubes, savouring the cold water in his hands with a small sigh before depositing them into the glasses. Sherlock reached into the glass closest to him and plucked an ice cube from it with his long fingers and proceeded to run the ice cube along his neck, his eyes fluttering shut in relief as the water melted against his burning skin. He let out a sigh, his full lips parting with pleasure. Something gave a dull throb in John's stomach, and he hurriedly returned his attention to filling the glasses with water, his cheeks suddenly somehow even warmer than before.

John held the glasses under the tap for a few second each, licking his lips nervously, and why was he so flustered? Frowning slightly, he turned back around to find Sherlock now sucking on the remains of his ice cube, the frozen water held loosely between his fingers, his lips sliding and slurping around the ice.

Almost robotically, John held out Sherlock's glass, and Sherlock raised his gaze to John's, grey eyes penetrating deep blue. Sherlock's wise, almond shaped eyes stared into John's unblinkingly and unrelentingly, piercing him, and John felt a small shiver run up his back before Sherlock accepted his glass and dropped the half-melted ice cube into the water. Sherlock tilted his head infinitesimally before breaking John's gaze and stalking back into the living room, leaving John alone in the kitchen.

His heart was positively hammering in his chest, what _was_ that? He took a shaky sip of his water, feeling the cool liquid sooth his parched throat and he breathed heavily through his nose, uneasy. He took another sip, a bigger one, and he was picturing Sherlock in Buckingham Palace, clad in his bedsheets, and then the bedsheet was getting tugged off and there was so much skin, a pale expanse of flawless, lightly muscled skin, and Sherlock was yammering at Mycroft to let go of the sheet and John had just shaken his head, they were at Buckingham Palace for Christ's sake.

But now…now they weren't at Buckingham Palace. John hadn't thought about that moment once in the months that had followed, had nearly forgotten about it in his whirlwind of a life with Sherlock, the constant running, constant solving, constant racing the clock….all of it had pushed certain thoughts out of John's mind. But now he remembered, with absolute clarity, the way his eyes had roamed over Sherlock's exposed flesh, taking in each centimetre feverishly, and the way John's body had responded almost instantly when he had learned Sherlock was naked under the cloth. He had passed it off as nerves, the flash of heat over his skin, his increased heart rate, the twitchiness of his fingers to rip off the sheet and see what was underneath…

John tilted the glass back and gulped down the rest of the cold water, his hand shaking. He drank a little too fast and began to cough, his eyes quickly watering.

"All right, John?" Sherlock called lazily from the living room, no concern at all in his voice.

"Mm-hmm, yeah, just—" John coughed. "Just swallowed some water the wrong way."

"Ah yes, hate when that happens." Sherlock replied, and John could have sworn he heard amusement in the man's words.

John cleared his throat and drank the rest of the water, placing the glass on the counter before slouching back into the living room, back to his chair. He dropped into it with a sigh, why was it so damn hot? He looked out the window and saw only yellow, the sun bleaching the shades into glaring brightness. John looked down at the table in front of him, the leftover folders and papers from their last case strewn all over the surface haphazardly as though they had been tossed about in a frantic revelation. They had been, in fact, Sherlock pulling one of his famous last-second realizations during the case, tossing the papers around wildly as he searched for the one with the vital clue. John then studied his nails, and from there his hands, staring at the short length of his fingers, and it occurred to him then that he was purposely avoiding looking at Sherlock.

He knew then he had to look, and so he gave in and glanced up at his friend on the couch, only to swallow heavily at the sight before him.

Sherlock was sprawled on his side, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his raised knee. His shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a section of pale torso, and the shirt that was covering his skin was clinging to him, leaving nothing to the imagination. His dark hair was falling into his eyes, and Sherlock was making no effort to move it from his view.

John had to fight the insane urge to moan, what was even wrong with him, Sherlock was _not _sexy, why was he even laying like that, like he was posing for a photoshoot?

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked quietly, his velvet voice soft amongst the whir of the fans in the room.

"Nothing. It's bloody hot." John replied, fighting to correct his voice, which had wanted to drop a few octaves against his will.

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed, tapping a finger against his cheek, scrutinizing John from the couch. John felt as though his skin was on fire, and the worst part was he was no longer sure whether or not it was because of the heat. His thoughts were a jumble of confusion and insecurity, why why why was he seeing Sherlock this way? Since when did he find men attractive? And why SHERLOCK of all people? John could easily think of several other, less completely insane people he could be attracted to (hypothetically). Sherlock was negligent, rude, mentally twisted, he just had to be, and—

"Well, I'm going to have a cold shower." Sherlock said, cutting off John's desperate, sexuality-questioning anti-Sherlock thought processes. John responded a fraction of a second too late.

"Uh, yeah, great, go for it."

There was an odd gleam in Sherlock's eyes for a second, almost triumphant, and then he was up and moving out of the room. John followed Sherlock's lithe, sweat-soaked body as it left, and once Sherlock was gone John wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and bit his lip, panic fighting to escape.

But he wasn't gay.

John dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed, as though trying to wake himself up. The sound of water running from the bathroom made him twist awkwardly in his seat, squirm, Sherlock was going to be standing under that water any second, naked, the water running down his body in streams in small, tantalizing drops, dripping into areas John hadn't seen but was now frantically imagining.

A certain tightness in his pants betrayed his thoughts, and Sherlock, _Sherlock_ was his friend, and John wasn't gay.

"Oh, God." He whimpered, leaning forward and clutching his sides. He couldn't stop.

What if Sherlock was in the shower…touching himself? Those long, pale fingers wrapped around his cock, water everywhere, his cheeks flushed as he pumped himself, John's pants were so damn tight, and it was so_ hot_.

Could it have been just that John never allowed himself to look at men? After all the mess with Harry being gay, maybe John just didn't see things in a positive light. He wasn't homophobic, far from it—he just saw her way of life and decided, no, not for me.

Maybe John was bisexual. He certainly loved women, this wasn't a question. He loved the softness of their hair, the fullness of their lips, their curves, his hands on their breasts…

Sherlock had no curves. He had no breasts. He was all long and sharp and angles, muscles under skin, paleness contrasting with dark hair and flashing eyes. And at the mere thought of these things John was curling in on himself again, the discomfort in his pants growing, clear evidence that John probably didn't mind Sherlock's lack of anything womanly at all.

The sound of water shutting off made John abruptly sit up, and then glance down at his lap where his erection was rather obviously pressing against his jeans. He swallowed, his throat once again dry, what was he going to _do_? Sherlock was going to know. He would just _know._ Even if John were to run to his room right now before Sherlock got out of the bathroom to notice, Sherlock would _know._ The man knows bloody everything.

Irrational with panic, John got to his feet and strode into the kitchen once again, and then faced the sink and pressed himself forward, hiding the bulge in his pants just as bathroom door opened. _What am I doing? John, why._ He wondered bleakly how he ever survived war if he gets this panicked and unreasonable over an erection.

John worked to smooth his face into something similar to nonchalance as Sherlock strode into the kitchen behind him. John could be staring out the window- there was one above the sink after all.

"Ahh, that felt marvelous." Sherlock said, walking to the fridge and opening it. John kept his gaze firmly trained at the window.

"Yeah, I might have to copy you and have one myself." John said as a escape came to him. If Sherlock would just go into the living room, John would be able to go through the second kitchen door into the hallway and from there to the washroom without ever being in Sherlock's direct gaze.

He was so pleased with this idea that he hadn't noticed that Sherlock had abandoned the fridge, having found nothing to eat, and was moving to stand next to him at the sink. He appeared next to John and rested his hands on the countertop, and before he could stop himself, John turned to look.

Sherlock was shirtless, his bare, incandescent chest slightly shiny with cold water. His dark hair was only slightly towel dried, the strands in a wet disarray around his head. He was wearing only a pair of soft chocolate trousers hung low on his slim hips, patches of the fabric dark from his wet legs. His nipples were..his nipples were hard.

"D-did you even dry yourself off?" John asked, trying to lace his words with disapproval, and failing completely. His voice cracked.

"No, just my hair a bit. Thought the water would keep me cooler longer." Sherlock replied. "But…you had already figured that out." He stared at John as the shorter man flushed, caught.

"Anyway, sorry, I just need to grab this…" Sherlock said in a murmur, leaning forward toward John, and suddenly John's vision was filled with Sherlock, the man was leaning closer and closer, and John faced him fully, heart pounding in his ears, Sherlock's eyes never left his, his full lips only an inch from John's now, John tilted his head slightly to meet them, oh God, oh—

"Ah, here we go." Sherlock said quietly, his breath puffing against John's lips—it smelled like mint and something absolutely delicious, tantalizing, and John's knees were shaking with the effort it was taking not to step forward that one inch and smash his mouth against Sherlock's.

Sherlock was suddenly leaning back, a petri dish in his hand. John had apparently not noticed that the man had reached around him on the counter to get it, he was so preoccupied with Sherlock's everything and his damn mouth being so close to his own—

John took a deep breath and realized he was now fully facing Sherlock, and the pale man would have a full view of John's pressing hardness if he only looked down. John quickly turned back to the sink, hoping to God Sherlock hadn't seen, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach confirming that Sherlock had indeed seen, and sure enough Sherlock's face broke out into a mischievous grin. John's face was on fire, he was mortified, "Sherlock, just, God I don't even—"

Before John was able to sputter through any kind of explanation, Sherlock burst into laughter, his eyes and nose crinkling up as he doubled over, the sound of his laughter ringing through the kitchen. John stared in growing embarrassment and anger as his friend guffawed before him, laughing so hard he was clutching at his sides. John let out a huff and shook his head, patience growing thin, he was this close to leaving the room and never coming back but then Sherlock was looking up at him, laughter subsiding and leaving a broad smile on his face.

"John, John Watson, you brilliant man." He stepped forward and placed his hands on John's shoulders.

John glared at him. He was starting to suspect something was off about this whole situation—and actually, why the hell didn't this occur to him before? Did Sherlock…drug him or something?

"What. Did you do." John hissed, and Sherlock shook his head, the mad smile still on his face.

"I did absolutely nothing to _you_. It was all how you reacted to _me_." Sherlock licked his lips, and despite his confusion and anger, John watched the movement with interest, hating himself.

"What?" He managed to growl, forcing his eyes up to meet Sherlock's.

The taller man shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "I was just so bored, John." He said, sounding slightly defensive, as though Sherlock had already explained himself and John had gotten mad over it. This sort of thing drove John crazy; Sherlock sometimes assumed John was following the same thought process that he was, that they were having some kind of internal conversation when in actuality John was always just left behind, clueless as to what was going on in Sherlock's head.

"Christ, Sherlock, just spit it out already!" John snapped.

"I needed something to do, John, anything, and I saw the way you looked at me when I stood up earlier, and I got an idea for something to try, to experiment…It was based off a hypothesis I created some months earlier…"

"Which was…?" John asked stiffly, something dark and dreadful curling in his stomach. He swiped at his forehead impatiently—why did it have to be so hot?

"I wanted to know whether or not John Watson was physically attracted to me."

Well. There it was.

John's knees started to quake, his mortification quickly climbing higher and higher, veins of anger and self-loathing spiraling higher with it, his hands were shaking. He gave a short jerk of a nod, breathing heavily through his nose, before spinning around to leave the room. Before he could even complete the movement Sherlock's hand was on his shoulder, halting him in place.

"Wait, John."

"No, Sherlock. I will _not _wait. I am mortified, I am furious, and you have FINALLY crossed the fucking line, Sherlock, I want to get the hell OUT OF THIS ROOM!" John shouted, his eyes starting to burn in a disconcerting way. He could not cry now. He would NOT cry.

Sherlock spun him back around and held him firmly in place by the shoulders so that he couldn't escape. "John, listen to me. Listen. When I did those things to elicit a reaction from you, several things happened. First of all, your pupils dilated. Second—"

"Sherlock." The word tore past John's gritted teeth in a flat plea.

"Secondly," Sherlock continued, still holding John in place, "your breathing quickened. Thirdly, I didn't even need to check your pulse to see it jumping in your neck. Fourthly, all of that happened to me as well."

John opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and looked at the very serious man in front of him. "What?"

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before moving John's hand down to his own wrist. Without even thinking about it, John flattened his index and middle fingers against Sherlock's wrist, feeling the quick pulses of his heart. A lot faster than what's healthy…

John looked up at Sherlock's face, into the man's grey eyes, to discover the pupils were blown wide, the black battling the grey of his eyes for dominance. John's heart beat in his chest in a sudden surge of hope.

"Sherlock…if you are somehow faking this…"

The dark-haired man shook his head. "I'm not, John. It was extraordinarily difficult not to kiss you just now."

John swallowed, the hope in his chest inflating to near uncomfortable proportions. "And…how long…"

"How long have I been attracted to you?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, well, since the beginning, really. Honestly John, are you that oblivious? I accredited you more intelligence than that; I may have to consider changing my notes about you."

John let out a small puff of laughter, his disbelief making him a little light-headed. Sherlock liked him like that? It was incredible, it was impossible, and so fucking surreal because up until twenty minutes ago John had been pretty positive he was not into men, and yet the way his heart was frantically beating in his chest at Sherlock's admission was telling him a different story.

"But I'm not gay." John said with a giggle, and Sherlock laughed as well, the tired old saying rendered absolutely useless now.

Sherlock suddenly stopped laughing, the mirth on his face dissolving into something a bit…darker. Almost…

_Hungry. _John thought, the grin slipping off his face as a shock of desire ripped through him at the sight of Sherlock looking at him like that, and John opened his mouth to ask something, something important, but at the movement of his lips Sherlock's eyes darted down to watch them part and John completely forgot what he was going to ask. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

"I uh…" He said, his throat feeling oddly constricted. Sherlock was leaning forward once again, and this time John knew it was no accident, nor was Sherlock likely to pull away—they both wanted this. His lips were a few inches away, and John could smell his breath, clean and fresh and something delicious, a few centimetres away now, Sherlock's intense eyes were staring into John's, John was having a hard time breathing, one centimetre to go…

And then Sherlock's full lips were pressing lightly against his, so softly, and John's eyelids fluttered closed. _They're so smooth, so soft and warm… _But it was a different warmth then the sweltering heat of the building. John moved his lips slowly against Sherlock's, feeling light as air, occasionally brought back to earth by shocks of pleasure moving from where his mouth connected to Sherlock's down through his body and pooling in his stomach. John reached up and twisted a hand into Sherlock's damp, curling hair, pressing himself a bit closer. Sherlock let out a pleased hum, deep in his throat, and John opened his mouth in surprise, breathing in quickly. Sherlock, sensing an opening, slid his tongue along John's bottom lip. John gasped and opened his mouth wider, letting Sherlock in, and _Christ._

Christ, it was good. He was good. Sherlock's tongue touched John's tentatively at first, but quickly began to caress the inside of John's mouth once John let out an impatient groan, Sherlock's hands sliding up John's damp back. He was unsteady on his feet, Sherlock tasted so _good_, so cleanly masculine, how John thought he wouldn't like this was so utterly beyond him now as their tongues stroked each other. Sherlock's hands crept up past John's shoulders and up his neck, lingering along John's pulse points, no doubt feeling his racing heartbeat under his fingers. He cupped John's face between his long, warm hands, stroking John's jaw with his thumb, and John sighed against Sherlock's lips.

They pulled away from each other, Sherlock still cradling John's face in his hands, John's lips feeling swollen, his mouth tasting of Sherlock.

'I-I've just snogged you." John said breathlessly. "I've just _snogged _you. Sherlock."

"It seems so." Sherlock replied, maintaining his composure with much more ease than John. "Weird?"

"Yes." _Weird doesn't even cover it._

"Bizarre?"

"Yes."

"Disturbing?"

"Yes."

"Shall we continue?"

"Oh God, yes."

John pulled Sherlock down to him and pressed their mouths together, this time with much more force, it was with a new urgency that they moved. John noticed with delight that Sherlock's pale cheeks were flushed pink, right across the cheekbones.

Their tongues reacquainted with each other as John moved his hands from Sherlock's hair down to his chest, feeling the naked flesh under his fingers quivering as he went. Sherlock made a small noise in his throat, and it sounded a bit strangled. Repressing a triumphant grin, John ran his hands all across Sherlock's chest and down his stomach, caressing the lean muscles gently, pressing a little in certain spots, making the taller man jump slightly. John became painfully away of just how hard he was when, as he lightly thumbed Sherlock's nipples, the dark-haired man let out a broken moan.

The sound went straight to John's aching cock, as well as reverberated around the kitchen, and John had to struggle to keep it together. _Sherlock Holmes_, making that kind of noise? For the longest time John had simply assumed the man wasn't capable of getting aroused, since he had shown no interest in any women (or men) during the time that they had lived together. But now that John knew Sherlock was certainly able to get turned on, and was able to make that desperate, throaty kind of noise, all John could think about was making Sherlock do it again. And again.

Instincts taking over completely, John pushed Sherlock against the counter, nearly pressing the taller man back over the edge of the sink, his spine curving as his body shaped itself along John's. Both men were covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and Sherlock smelled so _good. _John pushed his erection up against Sherlock's thigh, and oh God, the pressure, the breathless noises Sherlock was now making as John thrust up against him, Sherlock's hands slipping under John's shirt and palming the skin of John's back. John thrust, Sherlock arched and moved with him, their kisses now moving past their mouths. Sherlock kissed messy trail down John's neck, stopping and beginning to suck once he reached John's collarbone. The shorter man cried out as he felt Sherlock's tongue massage his skin, and he gripped the man's ass and pushed up against him, Sherlock wasn't wearing underwear under his pants, his ass was firm under John's hands, and Sherlock growled and pulled away from John's skin as John squeezed. Hot. It was so hot.

"John…" Sherlock whispered in his ear, voice even deeper than usual, sounding both desperate and overwhelmed.

The sound pushed John over the edge and he came in harsh jerks against Sherlock's leg, gripping tightly onto the dark-haired man's back as he did so, fingers digging into flesh and leaving red marks. John felt light-headed as he eventually finished, as though he wasn't getting quite enough air, and he staggered back from Sherlock, bracing himself against the opposite counter.

Sherlock stared at him with heavy-lidded eyes, and one glance downward told John that Sherlock wasn't quite there yet, but certainly just about. The front of his trousers was tented slightly, and a small wet patch graced the tip of what was certainly Sherlock's cock.

John swallowed, his cheeks flushing an even deeper shade than they were previously. Sherlock's lust for him was apparent, now, and unless Sherlock had taken some kind of stimulant before they started making out, that erect cock was all for John. He really wasn't humouring him, and this really wasn't some kind of experiment. Despite how heavy John had been into kissing and touching Sherlock, there had been the small worry, deep in the back of his mind, that Sherlock was still messing with him. But…he really wasn't.

John took a breath and stepped forward, reaching one hand out to tangle in Sherlock's messy hair, pressing the other onto the bulge in Sherlock's pants.

The effect was instantaneous; Sherlock jerked forward and grabbed onto John's shoulders, smashing his lips against John's, hissing into his mouth. John tentatively stroked down the length of Sherlock's cock through his trousers, trapping it between his index and middle finger and lightly caressing it. Sherlock gave up on kissing John and tucked his face into John's shoulder, his entire frame shaking, and John twisted his fingers slightly under the head of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock was coming, moaning into John's shoulder as John stroked him through it.

After a moment—and several deep breaths—Sherlock released him, and the two stood staring at each other in silence, contemplating what was possibly the same thing for the first time in the duration of their acquaintance.

"I uh…" John began, then cleared his throat and tried again. "I feel like I need to be mad at you for 'experimenting' on me…but I think that needs to wait."

"How so?" Sherlock asked, amusement and something else, something tender, in his eyes. John's heart thudded tiredly in his chest at the sight.

"Well, for one, we are both absolutely covered in sweat." John began, staring down at his shining forearms and wiped at his forehead. He felt completely disgusting but so, so good at the same time. So…satisfied.

"And secondly….we both just came in our pants. It feels disgusting." He continued, and was rewarded with a nod from Sherlock.

"Agreed. This feels about as awkward as I heard it would be. However, I would gladly place myself in this position endless times if the process leading to it was the same." Sherlock gave a smile at John, a wide, eye-crinkling smile, and to that John could only grin back.

"What do you suggest we do about this?" He asked lazily.

Sherlock titled his head, his flashing eyes mischievous. "I hear the shower has a vacancy or two."


End file.
